What Is San Francisco?

IT'S THE MAGIC TOWERS of a steel fairyland -- the beacon atop the proud Mark, the red, thermometer-like cap of the Drake, the sturdy, four-square crest of Mother Russ, the sudden, blunt end of Coit Tower -- that make up the minarets of a metropolis . . . It's the all-night flower stand on Powell, 'long about sunup, with its bright, clean perfumery set off by the dark, dank ugliness of a busy scavenger's truck . . . It's the endless, gleaming string of limousines rolling up to the Opera House -- the carriage trade on its high horse . . . It's outer Geary Boulevard, where a great city dissolves without self-con sciousness into a small town -- and the signs read, with unaccustomed friendliness, "Jimmy's" and "Pat and Johnny's" and "Sam's."

IT'S THE glamorous alleys of North Beach at night -- glamorous because the single street lamp casts a dramatic beam across each and sets the stage for a stark drama that is never enacted . . . It's the row upon row of minute, empty stores on lower Market, lonely and forlorn because the heart of a city has moved away from it . . . It's the soaring, streamlined tower of the new Union Oil building, holding up its shiny head with self-assurance against the Bay Bridge -- partners in progress.

IT'S THE PONDEROUS, soulless bulk of Hotel St. Francis -- the bridge between San Francisco's Yesterday and Today and half conceited about it . . . It's the huge, sprawling markets along North Beach's Columbus Avenue -- Italy playing its most congenial role along the street that's cut on the bias . . . It's the spectacular rear platform of the Cliff House -- under the proscenium arch of a scene too infinite, too celestial for your eye to worship for more than a fleeting embrace.

IT'S THE dramatically sudden appearance of more men in uniform than you've ever seen on the streets -- symbols of a giant awakening to conflict, perhaps to blot out the peace and loveliness of All This . . . It's the raucous, stark revival meeting at Third and Mission -- where a man yells hysterically that he's been "Saved!" while all about him drift broken men who'll never be Saved, and the sightless windows of the surrounding buildings throw his words back at him scoffingly.

IT'S THE STREET after street filled with damp cars parked outside all night -- streaming ships of the city unable to find a harbor . . . It's the dreamy silence of Pier 44 on a sunny mid-afternoon -- where customs officers, white-capped longshoremen and shipping officials quietly play cards over a counter to prove that men can get along with each other . . . It's the endless rows of cabs lined alongside the places where people gather -- Yellow feet for the ones tired out in the work of having fun . . . It's the 7:30 p.m. flurry of humanity around the tiny neighborhood movie houses -- tinsel palaces of escape for those who slave by day in the temples of Big Business.

IT'S THE SMOKY, all-night pool parlors of North Beach -- fraternity houses for the lonely brothers who've been black-balled by life . . . It's the Saturday tea dansant at the Palace -- where the most beautiful girls in the world gather under one roof not to be admired, but to admire Artie Shaw, who only looks the other way . . . It's the Old San Francisco restaurants -- with their ancient waiters serving the same old food in the same old way because tradition is their master and an increasingly cruel one, too.

IT'S THE COLD, refined handsomeness of outer Pacific Avenue, which picks up its skirts daintily and stares haughtily in another direction as the street swings into a less correct district . . . It's the frenzied burst of activity on the city's playgrounds each Sunday morning -- the people joyously breaking their backs on the Day of Rest, losing their heads in an escape from six days of headaches.

IT'S THE PARADE of Willkie buttons in the noontime eating places -- men wearing their political hearts on their sleeves . . . It's the blind, hatless banjo player feeling his way smilingly along Post in the afternoon sun -- making tinny music for the ears in the midst of women making silky music for the eyes . . . It's the indescribable conglomeration of beauty and ugliness that makes San Francisco a poem without meter, a symphony without harmony, a painting without reason -- a city without an equal.

This vintage Herb Caen column from October 22, 1940 is reprinted as part of Herb Caen Days 2002.

This article appeared on page A - 22 of the San Francisco Chronicle